There is in certain men--and Bruce Carmyle was one of them--a quality ofresilience, a sturdy refusal to acknowledge defeat, which aids them aseffectively in affairs of the heart as in encounters of a sterner andmore practical kind. As a wooer, Bruce Carmyle resembled that durabletype of pugilist who can only give of his best after he has received atleast one substantial wallop on some tender spot. Although Sally hadrefused his offer of marriage quite definitely at Monk's Crofton, ithad never occurred to him to consider the episode closed. All his lifehe had been accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he meant to getit now.

　　He was quite sure that he wanted Sally. There had been moments when hehad been conscious of certain doubts, but in the smart of temporarydefeat these had vanished. That streak of Bohemianism in her which fromtime to time since their first meeting had jarred upon his orderly mindwas forgotten; and all that Mr. Carmyle could remember was thebrightness of her eyes, the jaunty lift of her chin, and the gallanttrimness of her. Her gay prettiness seemed to flick at him like a whipin the darkness of wakeful nights, lashing him to pursuit. And quietlyand methodically, like a respectable wolf settling on the trail of aRed Riding Hood, he prepared to pursue. Delicacy and imagination mighthave kept him back, but in these qualities he had never been strong. Onecannot have everything.

　　His preparations for departure, though he did his best to make themswiftly and secretly, did not escape the notice of the Family. In manyEnglish families there seems to exist a system of inter-communicationand news-distribution like that of those savage tribes in Africa whopass the latest item of news and interest from point to point over milesof intervening jungle by some telepathic method never properlyexplained. On his last night in London, there entered to Bruce Carmyleat his apartment in South Audley Street, the Family's chosenrepresentative, the man to whom the Family pointed with pride--UncleDonald, in the flesh.

　　There were two hundred and forty pounds of the flesh Uncle Donald wasin, and the chair in which he deposited it creaked beneath its burden.

　　Once, at Monk's Crofton, Sally had spoiled a whole morning for herbrother Fillmore, by indicating Uncle Donald as the exact image of whathe would be when he grew up. A superstition, cherished from earlyschooldays, that he had a weak heart had caused the Family's managingdirector to abstain from every form of exercise for nearly fifty years;and, as he combined with a distaste for exercise one of the threeheartiest appetites in the south-western postal division of London,Uncle Donald, at sixty-two, was not a man one would willingly havelounging in one's armchairs. Bruce Carmyle's customary respectfulnesswas tinged with something approaching dislike as he looked at him.

　　Uncle Donald's walrus moustache heaved gently upon his laboured breath,like seaweed on a ground-swell. There had been stairs to climb.